Heading down the Drive yesterday, the lake a combination of ice and icy blue, a world of pinks graduating upward, the city stalwart against the chill, and the trees each coated in a soft blanket of frost, I lamented, not for the first time, my inability to paint.
I can take photographs, sure, but it wasn’t an option and the time was fleeting.
And a photograph wouldn’t have captured all of it, the tone, the mood, the colors you can sense but don’t actually see. That is something painting can do, to take what is real, what we can know, and make it clearer. Record it in the way it was remembered rather than the way it was.